The Project Gutenberg EBook of Dave Dawson with the R.A.F, by R. Sidney Bowen This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Dave Dawson with the R.A.F Author: R. Sidney Bowen Release Date: December 27, 2012 [EBook #41715] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAVE DAWSON WITH THE R.A.F *** Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan, Roger L. Holda and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net DAVE DAWSON with the R.A.F. by R. SIDNEY BOWEN Author of "DAVE DAWSON AT DUNKIRK" The War Adventure Series [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY AKRON, OHIO NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1941, BY CROWN PUBLISHERS PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA THE WAR ADVENTURE BOOKS Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer are the youngest licensed pilots of the R.A.F. Thrills aplenty are in store for them as they bag German plane after German plane in a series of dare-devil maneuvers. Dropped by parachute into Belgium, deep in Nazi-occupied territory, on a dangerous spy mission, they escape at the risk of their lives with the secret information which enables England to foil the planned German invasion. A fast-moving, pulse-quickening narrative! CONTENTS PAGE I TWO JUNKERS LESS! 9 II MYSTERIOUS ORDERS 24 III NIGHT RAID 34 IVNAZI WINGS OVER LONDON 47 VAIR VICE-MARSHAL SAUNDERS 68 VI ENGLAND MUST NEVER DIE 84 VII BRAVE WINGS FLY EASTWARD 101 VIII TERROR RIDES THE NIGHT SKY 115 IXIN THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY 128 XTRAPPED! 141 XI FLIGHT FROM NAZI GUNS 157 XII QUICK THINKING 175 XIII SIXTEEN RUE CHARTRES 194 XIVPIERRE DESCHAUD SPEAKS 210 XVDANGER IN THE DARK 223 XVI WINGS OF THE R.A.F. 237 CHAPTER ONE Two Junkers Less! Dave Dawson lay on his back, fingers laced behind his head for a pillow, and lazily watched white patches of cloud play tag with each other at some eighteen thousand feet over England. It was the tenth day of September, 1940, and the most glorious summer the British had experienced in forty years was still very much in evidence. The sun was a brassy ball in the heavens that flooded the earth with a warm comforting glow. The birds, the bees, and the butterflies were all around. And the emerald green of the surrounding landscape gave him the feeling that the snow and the cold of winter were two things that would never be experienced in England again. A perfect summer day! The warm sun, the singing birds, the flowers in bloom—and the war! Twenty miles across the English Channel, less than three minutes by air, Nazi hordes were working day and night toward that great moment when their leader, Adolf Hitler, would give them the order to begin their attempted invasion of England. And on this side of that Channel some forty odd millions of people were also working day and night so that when the order was given, not a single German booted foot would succeed in touching English soil. A beautiful summer day, and the people of the greatest empire on earth were waiting, ready to fight and die to the last man that their empire might continue to survive. "Well, Pilot Officer Dave Dawson, of His Majesty's Royal Air Force," a voice suddenly spoke in Dave's ear, "I'll give you a penny for your thoughts. No, wait, let me guess. You were thinking about your home in Boston, Massachusetts, back in the States?" Dave sat up and grinned down at the good-looking, sun-bronzed youth sprawled out on the grass at his side. He shook his head and held out his hand. "Wrong, Pilot Officer Freddy Farmer, of the same Royal Air Force," he said. "So pay me the penny. I was thinking that it sure is one swell day. And I was wondering if we were going to get a little action, or if Hitler had found out we were now regular active service pilots, and had decided to call off the war." "Hardly," the English youth said with a chuckle. "True, he's probably scared stiff now that you and I are in the R.A.F. I fancy, though, he isn't that scared. But it's pretty wonderful, isn't it? I mean, to be in the R.A.F." Dave didn't answer. He let his gaze wander over to the line of Supermarine Spitfires powered with 1030 hp. Rolls Royce "Merlin" engines. Just looking at those swift, man-made metal birds of war made his heart start pounding and the blood surge through his body. An honest to goodness Spitfire pilot in the Royal Air Force! It was like living a wonderful dream, and it was doubly wonderful because it was true. The training and the concentrated study were all behind Freddy and himself, now. Each wore the highly prized wings above the upper left pocket of his tunic. But perhaps even more important was the fact that they had already received their baptism under fire. Each had got himself a German plane, the first payment in return for the training and instruction England had given them. For a month, now, they had been stationed with No. 207 Squadron, located on the east coast of England, just a few miles north of Chelmsford. Only a month so far on active duty—the "Babies" of the Squadron—but because of the speed with which wars are being fought these days, with each day filled with twenty-four hours of service and activity, they were just as much veterans as most of the older pilots. "Stop daydreaming," Freddy cut into Dave's thoughts. "You are glad to be in the R.A.F., aren't you?" Dave looked at him and raised both his eyebrows. "Glad?" he echoed. "Boy, I'm tickled pink! Right now I wouldn't swap places with anybody else in all the world. Glad? Holy smokes! Is that a dumb question! And say, come across with that penny. Pay up, pal!" Freddy made a face, fished a penny from his pocket and tossed it over. "Right you are, there," he said. "I'll have you know an Englishman always pays his debts. What do you think, Dave?" "About what?" "About the blighters across the Channel," Freddy said. "Think they'll be fools enough to try and invade us? I mean, seriously." "I don't know," Dave said with a shrug. He plucked a blade of grass and started chewing on it thoughtfully. "No, I don't know if Hitler's that crazy, or not," he continued after a moment. "All I can say is I sure hope he tries it. We'll give him a beating he won't forget in a hurry. Gee! That makes me feel good!" "What makes you feel good?" Freddy wanted to know. "Saying that," Dave grunted. "Saying we'll give him a beating. Gosh, a few months ago I was an American citizen, standing on the sidelines watching things. Now, though, I'm a part of it. When I speak of England doing this or that, I'm including me, because I'm really a little part of it, now. It sure gives me a kick to feel that way, and to know it's true." "And England is grateful, Dave," Freddy said solemnly. "I guess you might say that England's fighting to save the world, and—" The young Englishman didn't finish the rest. At that moment the phone bell in the Dispersal Office not far away rang harshly. In a flash they were both on their feet, because the ringing of that phone bell always meant just one thing. It meant that German planes had been sighted approaching 207's patrol area. The voice at the other end of that phone would state where the planes were, how many in number, the types, the altitude, direction, and so forth. To pilots on stand-to duty the ringing of that bell meant action coming up. And so, as their flight leader answered the call, Dave and Freddy started pulling on their helmets and zipping up their flying suits, for although it was summer on the ground it was cold up around twenty thousand feet where they usually did battle. A moment later Flight Lieutenant Barton-Woods, leader of their flight, known as Green Flight, came dashing out of the Dispersal Office. "Right-o, chaps!" he called out to them, and hurried toward his plane. "A couple of Junkers 88s cutting across Zone H at twenty-two thousand. Let's go up and chase the beggars down into the sea." In less than a minute the three Spitfires streaked off the field and went wind screaming up for altitude. As soon as they were clear, Flight Lieutenant Barton-Woods checked his radio with the field's station, and then checked with the two members of his flight. "Radio check, chaps!" came the words in Dave's helmet phones. "Check, sir," he spoke into the disc-shaped mike in front of his mouth. "Check, also, sir," he heard Freddy sing out. "Right you are, lads," the flight lieutenant replied. "Don't forget to turn on your oxygen at five thousand, so's you won't forget it at twenty." Dave reached forward and turned the little valve knob that would feed him oxygen through a mouthpiece. He didn't need it yet, of course, but it was a practice to turn the thing on at low altitudes so that it would be ready for instant use at higher altitudes. If you waited until you needed oxygen, you might be too busy at that moment fighting for your life to have time to turn the knob. And then it would be just too bad—for you. And so Dave made sure ahead of time, then concentrated on keeping his place in the V-shaped formation, and following his flight leader high up into the cloud-dotted blue. In less time than it takes to tell about it, England was just a blur of browns and greens far down under their wings; just a tiny island completely surrounded by water and almost within broad jumping distance of Nazi-conquered Europe. Dave, however, didn't bother about admiring the sight. He had seen it countless times before. And besides, he needed his eyes now for things above, not under him. Somewhere up in that vast expanse of white-dotted blue two German Junkers were trying to sneak in to drop their bomb loads on English soil. Two of Air Marshal Goering's winged vultures were hoping to— "There they are, chaps!" Flight Lieutenant Barton-Woods' voice came through the earphones. "Turn right a quarter, and a thousand feet above us. Tally-ho, lads! The blighters! They spotted us and are turning back! After them, Green Flight!" Dave and Freddy had already spotted the two would-be raiders off to their right front and a thousand feet or so higher. The huge twin-engine craft were halfway around in a bank back toward the east, and the rays of the sun on their metal wings and sides made them look like prehistoric birds of glistening silver cutting through the air. Keeping his eyes glued to them, Dave hunched forward slightly in his seat and slid one thumb up to rest on the trigger button on his control stick. One jab at that button and the eight Vickers high speed machine guns cowled into the Spitfire's wings, four on each side, would spew out a shower of destruction at the rate of over nine thousand bullets a minute. All eight guns were sighted to converge at a point some two hundred yards in front of the ship. And anything that crossed that spot when those eight guns were hammering out their song was doomed to a lot of trouble—and nine times out of ten just plain, naturally doomed. For a split second Dave took his eyes off the Junkers trying to scoot back home and shot a quick glance at Freddy Farmer. His lips twisted back in a happy smile, and a warm comforting glow drifted through him. Good old Freddy. Always there just off his wingtip. A pilot in a million, as far as Dave was concerned. They flew like a team that had been working together for years instead of only a few months. Each seemed to sense instantly, whether on a routine practice patrol or in the middle of a bullet-barking dog fight, just what the other was going to do. And as a result of the perfect coordination between them, more times than not they got exactly what they went after. As Squadron Leader Trenton, 207's commanding officer, had once remarked: "They're the babies of the Squadron, but I jolly well wish I had a whole squadron of babies!" At that moment a short, savage burst from Flight Lieutenant Barton-Woods' guns snapped Dave's eyes back to the Junkers. They were still quite a ways off but the Green Flight leader had let go with a challenging burst hoping that the Germans would give up thoughts of escape and turn back to give battle. However, it was instantly obvious that the Junkers pilots and their crews didn't want any truck with three Spitfire pilots. The nose of each ship was pushed down a bit to add speed to the get away attempt. And a moment later Dave saw the flash of sunlight on bombs dropping harmlessly down into the rolling grey-green swells where the Channel blends in with the North Sea. "Not this day, my little Jerries!" Flight Lieutenant Barton-Woods' voice boomed over the radio. "Let's make the beggars pay for dropping bombs in our Channel, Green Flight! Give it to them!" The last was more or less the signal that each pilot was on his own. Dave waited until he saw his flight leader swerve off to slam in at the Junkers to the right. Then he touched rudder, and with Freddy sticking right with him, swerved off after the other German raider. They were real close now, well within gun range, and as the pair slid out to take up attack positions the Junkers' gunners started throwing nickel jacketed lead. The wavy smoke of tracers whipped and zipped by a few feet over Dave's head. He laughed into his mike and dropped his nose and cut sharply off to the right. Freddy did the same, only off to the left. No sooner had they started the cutting away maneuver than they cut right back in again. The German gunners saw them coming and fired their guns savagely, but those two R.A.F. lads tore in like a couple of man-made birds gone completely crazy. It was as though they both intended to fly right straight into the Junkers. Then when there were no less than a couple of split seconds left before just that would happen, Freddy Farmer's voice sang out in Dave's earphones. "Right-o, Dave!" he shouted. "This one for us!" They both jabbed their trigger button and sixteen Vickers machine guns poured a withering blast of destruction into that Junkers 88. For a few seconds the German raider continued to roar eastward. Then suddenly its port engine belched out a cloud of red flame and oily black smoke. Then as though the craft had hooked its left wing on some invisible wall in the sky, the Junkers staggered to the left and down. Its tail gunner kept up his fire as Dave and Freddy skipped past and zoomed up to dive attack again. But that German might just as well have tried to shoot at a couple of lightning bolts flashing by. Cutting short their zoom Dave and Freddy rolled their Spitfires over and let them drop by the nose. Down they came again, holding their fire until the last few seconds. The Junkers now was more like a moving cloud of smoke than an airplane flying through the air. And when Dave and Freddy jabbed their trigger buttons again it was the death blow for that German raider. The right wing broke off clean at the stub, and carried the starboard engine along with it. From nose to tail the Junkers became no more than a moving ball of fire. Then suddenly the gas tanks let go. The whole sky was filled with barbs of darting flame and billowing clouds of black smoke. The sky trembled and shook ... and then the Junkers 88 just wasn't there any more. It was a shower of smoking and flaming debris slithering down into the North Sea. "Good lad, Dave!" Freddy sang out. "Your bursts did it!" "My bursts, nothing!" Dave called back to him. "I didn't even come close to the guy. That was your plane, Freddy. Congratulations!" "Rot!" Freddy snorted into his disc mike, also known as the "flap" mike. "We'll split the beggar and each take half, eh? Oh, oh, Dave! The flight lieutenant's in trouble!" It was true. Perhaps there was a better pilot in the other Junkers, or perhaps gunners with a better aim, or it was even possible Flight Lieutenant Barton-Woods had become careless for a moment or so. Anyway, he had not nailed his man, and the Junkers gunners were giving him quite an uncomfortable time as he zoomed up into the clear. Dave and Freddy didn't speak a single word between them. They simply wheeled across the sky in perfect attack formation, and then roared down on the Junkers. Its rear gunner was no novice, and he had courage. He stuck to his guns and returned their own savage fire. Dave felt his plane quiver slightly, and knew that German bullets were hitting his ship. But he didn't swerve an inch. His wing howled down at the German and he held his fire until the right moment. This time he shouted the signal. "Smack it, Freddy!" Their guns hammered and yammered out their song, and Dave could clearly see their tracers zinging down into the German plane. No man-made airplane on earth could have withstood that blasting fire from the sixteen guns between the two youths. And that Junkers 88 was no exception to prove the rule. It burst into flame and went careening crazily off on one wing. Then it dropped by the nose, and started howling seaward in a vertical power dive. After it had dropped three or four hundred feet, five black dots popped out from it like peas out of a pod. They instantly became men in Dave's vision, and they slowly turned over and over as they fell down through the air. At the end of almost thirty seconds a puff of white shot up from each man's back. They spread out into parachute envelopes, and five German airmen drifted slowly down toward the surface of the North Sea where British motorboats waited to pull them in as captured prisoners. Dave and Freddy didn't bother watching the five German airmen float downward. Instead they pulled up out of the dives, closed in on Flight Lieutenant Barton-Woods and took up formation positions. Their leader grinned at them, and they heard his voice coming over the radio. "Stout work, you two," he said. "Made an awful mess of it, myself. But you two were along, so I knew everything would be fine. Well, let's toot on back home and report to the O.C." CHAPTER TWO Mysterious Orders Less than half an hour later, the three pilots of 207 were reporting all details of the patrol to Squadron Leader Trenton, and the R.A.F. Intelligence officer who sat at his side. No matter how trivial a patrol may be, R.A.F. pilots always make a complete report upon their return to the home field. That way the ranking powers are always able to have a complete picture of the war in the air before them. In other words, every single scrap of information about a patrol is important, because you never can tell what it might mean in the whole scheme of things. For that reason the pilots not only made out their reports in writing, but made them by word of mouth, too. "Good work, you two," the Squadron Leader said, and smiled at Freddy and Dave. "It's not such an easy job getting a Junkers 88. Those planes have a pretty fair amount of fire power. So getting two of them is a mighty good piece of work. And, oh yes, stay a bit, will you? I want to have a talk with you." A few minutes later Flight Lieutenant Barton-Woods and the Intelligence officer headed off for the mess. As the door closed on them, Squadron Leader Trenton swung around in his chair and gave the two boys a long piercing stare. Then he suddenly clasped his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "I say, you two," he spoke up, "have you gotten yourselves into a bit of trouble that might have been reported to the Air Ministry in London?" Dave and Freddy looked blankly at each other for a brief moment, then returned their gaze to the squadron leader. "Trouble, sir?" Dave echoed faintly. "When, sir?" Freddy added. "And where?" The squadron commander shrugged and looked completely at sea. "I haven't the faintest idea," he said. "I was only asking you. Nothing happened when you two popped up to London for a day's leave last week?" "Why, no, sir," Freddy answered promptly for them both. "We just nosed around and saw a couple of shows, that's all. We were both back here at the squadron by midnight." "Why?" Dave put the question. "Has anything happened, sir?" "I can't say," Squadron Leader Trenton murmured, and stared at them with a troubled look in his eyes. "Just after you took off on this last show, I received a phone call from Air Ministry. You two are ordered to report to Air Vice- Marshal Saunders bright and early tomorrow morning. You'd better go up to London tonight so's you'll be sure and be at Adastral House (R.A.F. name for the Air Ministry) bright and early." "Air Vice-Marshal Saunders?" Freddy Farmer repeated in an awed tone. "But why would he want to see us, sir?" Squadron Leader Trenton smiled thinly as he gestured with his two hands on the desk. "In this case, I still haven't any idea," he said. "Usually, though, it's for one of two reasons: to give you a very hot going over for breaking some rule and getting into trouble; or else to give you his personal congratulations as he tells you you've been recommended for a medal." "Well, it surely can't be for either of those reasons," Dave said with a frown. "We certainly haven't bumped into any trouble, and we certainly haven't done anything to rate a medal. And—My gosh! Holy smokes! Do you suppose—?" Dave gulped and didn't finish the rest. Squadron Leader Trenton gave him a keen glance. "Do I suppose what, Dawson?" he prompted. Dave had to swallow again before he could speak. A crazy thought had suddenly flashed through his brain, but just the same it had given him a cold chill. "Do you suppose there's some new law?" he began. "I mean, could there be some new ruling that might force us to resign our commissions because we're both only seventeen, a year under the regulation age?" A look of relief flooded the senior officer's face. He laughed and shook his head. "Not even likely!" he said in firm conviction. "After the way you two chaps have stood up, it doesn't matter in the slightest how old you are—seventeen or seventy. No, Dawson, I think I can assure you positively that the R.A.F. will never make any new ruling or law that would rid it of you two. No, you can let that worry bail out of your mind, and forget it forever. No, that wasn't the reason for my phone call." "And you really haven't any idea, sir?" Freddy asked. "I mean, could this possibly mean that Dawson and I are being transferred someplace else?" "By gad, I hope not!" the squadron leader exclaimed sharply, and sat up in his chair. "No, it couldn't be that, either. I would be informed. The transfer papers would be sent along to me. Besides, I'd raise the roof at any suggestion like that." "Boy, I wish we were reporting today," Dave grunted. "I know doggone well I won't sleep a wink tonight!" "Which may be the exact truth!" Squadron Leader Trenton said with a dry smile. "The Jerries are starting to bomb London at night, now, you know. And by the way, if they do while you two are there, just see to it that you keep out from under, won't you? It cost the R.A.F. a fair penny to make Spitfire pilots out of you. We want a return on the investment, you know." The two boys laughed, but inside they glowed and felt very happy indeed. That was simply Squadron Leader Trenton's way of saying that he valued their aid to 207, and didn't want anything to happen that would rob 207 Squadron of their flying and combat ability. "Don't worry, we'll sure watch our step, sir," Dave said. Then, with a quick side glance at Freddy: "I'll see that he doesn't stumble over any bombs. I'll keep hold of his hand all the time." The squadron leader laughed, and Freddy Farmer blushed to the ears. "When anybody has to hold my hand, I'll jolly well let you know!" the young Englishman said scornfully. "Like as not, it'll be the other way 'round. Don't you think his face is getting a bit pale already, sir?" Freddy addressed the last to Squadron Leader Trenton, who laughed again. "Can't say for sure, Farmer," the O.C. said gravely. "The light's bad in here, you know. Well, anyway, pop along, you two, and pack a bag. The adjutant will give you railroad vouchers, and your passes. Get back here soon. And no matter what—good luck to both of you." The two youths thanked him, saluted and retreated outside. As they started toward their living quarters, Dave slyly stuck out his foot, and when Freddy tripped over it and started to fall headlong, Dave grabbed him quickly. "See?" Dave chided, as he helped Freddy to keep his balance. "Just as I thought! You need somebody to hold your hand. Oh, well, I'll be glad to do it, because I like you, little boy. Hey!" Freddy caused the exclamation, because as he straightened up he stepped hard on Dave's foot, then broke into a sprint for their living quarters. The English youth won by a good three yards. He was inside and hauling out his suitcase as Dave came bursting in. He glanced up with a look of mock concern on his face. "Something wrong, Dave?" he murmured. "Is a Jerry chasing you?" "Just a pal!" Dave growled, and limped toward his own bunk. "I stop the guy from falling down and breaking his neck, and what does he do? He practically cripples me for life. A fine screw-ball I've got for a pal. Say, Freddy?" "Yes?" Dave sank down on his bunk with a frown and made no effort to haul out his suitcase. "This business at Adastral House tomorrow," he grunted. "Jeepers! I sure hope it isn't bad news. I don't know why, but I've got a funny feeling." Freddy stopped packing and looked up. "What kind of a funny feeling?" he wanted to know. Dave scratched the back of his neck and sighed. "Just a funny feeling, that's all," he said. "I can't put it into words. I've just got a hunch that plenty is going to happen." "Good, or bad?" Freddy asked. Dave shook his head and got off the bunk. "Boy, do I wish I knew!" he breathed. "Well, we can only wait and hope, I guess. Where do you want to stay in London? Your family's house on Baker Street is closed up, isn't it?" "Yes," Freddy said. "But, if you like, we can open it for the night. There'd be no objections." "No, let's bunk at a hotel," Dave said. "How about the Savoy? That's close to the Air Ministry." "So the lad's a blinking millionaire!" Freddy commented with a chuckle. "He must stay at the very best of places. Too bad they don't rent room and bath at Buckingham Palace." "Okay, okay!" Dave growled. "Then where do we park?" "Why, at the Savoy, of course," Freddy said with a sly grin. "I fancy our pilot officer's pay can stand it for one night. And that makes me wonder a bit, you know?" "What does?" Dave asked absently, as he started studying a London timetable. "What are you wondering about now, my little man?" "I was wondering where we'll be tomorrow night," Freddy replied. "Somehow I don't even dare guess," Dave said. "And—Hey, get a move on, fellow! There's a train leaving Chelmsford in forty minutes. Let's grab that. It gets us in London just about in time to put on the feed bag. Gee! I wonder if they've got strawberry shortcake at the Savoy. Boy, can I go for that dish!" "Good grief!" Freddy groaned. Then, in mock gravity: "Why, certainly, my dear fellow. Anything for a weary R.A.F. pilot, you know. After all, who else is fighting the blinking war?" Dave heaved a book at him, but Freddy dodged it neatly, and then the pair set to packing in earnest. As they expected to be away only a day and a night at the most, they didn't put many "spares" into their bags. As a matter of fact, though, had the two of them been able to look into the future at that moment, they wouldn't have bothered about packing anything! Clean shirts, spare socks and handkerchiefs, and all that sort of stuff, were items they wouldn't be even thinking about in the hectic days that lay just ahead. "Okay, I'm set, are you?" Dave presently announced, and clicked his bag shut. "Right you are," Freddy called out, and shut his own bag. "Off we go!" Dave caught up his bag and started for the door. When he reached it, he suddenly paused and turned around. "Doggone that hunch!" he grunted. "Wonder what it means, anyway?" CHAPTER THREE Night Raid The shrill whistle of the locomotive echoed across the twilight-steeped English countryside. The train lurched and trembled for a moment or so, and then started gliding smoothly along the tracks. Dave and Freddy took a last glance out the compartment window at the Chelmsford station and then settled back comfortably on the cushioned seats. They had the compartment to themselves, and for that they were truly grateful. They were headed for London for half leave and half military reasons, but that didn't mean they weren't tired. The last few weeks had been crowded with more aerial warfare than had taken place in a whole year in World War Number One. The Royal Air Force had almost single-handed held back the Nazis from crossing the Channel. Still outnumbered, but not so much as at Dunkirk, the R.A.F. boys from the squadron leaders right down to the lowest grade mechanics had gained mastery of the air over the Channel and over England. And, what was more important, they had held that mastery regardless of the German fleets of planes Goering had hurled against them. Stretching out, Dave leaned his head back, and cocked his feet up on the opposite seat. "If I could only get Air Vice-Marshal Saunders off my mind," he sighed, "I might catch me a bit of shut-eye. Boy, we've been hitting that old ball lately, you know?" "Hitting what?" Freddy murmured, and closed his eyes. "What in the world does that mean?" "Sure, hitting the old ball," Dave said lazily. "Smacking that apple. Hitting on all six. Right on the beam every minute. Catch on?" "Oh, of course!" Freddy groaned, and gave a shake of his head. "A chap who spoke English would certainly be at a loss in the States, wouldn't he?" "That's right," Dave said sleepily. "Just like an American being in England. Lift, for elevator! Treacle, when it's syrup! Queue-up, when you mean standing in line. Boy, what a language! And, am I all in! Jeepers! Am I tired! Am I—" The sudden and abrupt slackening of the train's speed woke both boys up in a flash. In fact, it woke them up in the dark, for it was late evening outside, and while they had dozed the conductor had come in and pulled down the compartment window curtains. A very pale blue light in the corridor outside was of no more good than no light at all. Freddy groaned aloud, flexed his stiff muscles, and peered around a corner of the window curtain. "Now what?" he murmured. "Dark as pitch outside, but I'm sure we're not even close to London yet. I say, hear those anti-aircraft guns?" "With both ears," Dave said, and took a squint out himself. By pressing close to the glass and trying to look in the direction of the engine, he could just barely see the long pencil- thin beams of searchlights raking the heavens far ahead. And every now and then the dark sky was stabbed by blotches of flaming red and crimson. "The Jerries are over again, trying to hit some more women and children," he said grimly. "I hope our night boys get every darn one of them." "They'll get some, I fancy," Freddy said quietly. "But why are we running so slow? That raid is miles and miles ahead of us. Besides, I always thought a moving target was much harder to hit. This blasted train might just as well go sixty miles as six, as it must be doing now." "Stay after school, Pilot Officer Farmer!" Dave snorted. "And here I thought you knew all the answers! My, my!" "Oh, come off it!" Freddy snapped. "I suppose you know the reason?" "Sure," Dave said. "Well, what is it?" "An official secret," Dave said in a hoarse whisper. "I'd tell you, but how do I know there isn't a Nazi agent under the seat?" "You'll be under the seat, if you don't cut it out!" Freddy whispered back at him. "Now, what's the great reason?" "Okay, if you've got to know," Dave said in a patient, resigned voice. "This is how it is, my little man. German planes carry bombs, and when they get over here they drop those bombs, see? Well, one might drop on the track way ahead of a train going sixty miles an hour, see? Well, maybe the engineer couldn't stop in time, and the train would pile up. But if the train crawls along until the all-clear is sounded, then the engineer can stop it on a dime if he should go around a curve and suddenly see a nice big bomb crater where the tracks should be. Now, right or wrong?" Freddy made clucking sounds with his tongue in the darkness. "Why, I believe the chap is right," he said, as though talking to himself. "Yes, I fancy he has a little bit of something useful between those big ears of his. You are right, of course, Dave." "Ever see me when I was wrong?" Dave taunted. Then quickly: "No, let's not bring that up! Hey! Those planes are headed this way!" Dave could have saved his breath on the last. As though a huge invisible door in the sky had been opened, the thunder of the guns tripled in sound. The compartment was suddenly bathed in the pale reflection of a battery of searchlight beams that suddenly sprang into action less than fifty yards from the tracks. The train had come to a full halt now, with its headlight turned off. A moment later came the familiar drone of night-bombing Heinkels and Benz-Daimler powered Focke-Wulf 187s above the roar of the batteries of anti-aircraft guns. For a moment Dave and Freddy watched the approach of the raiding planes. Then common sense got the best of curiosity. They stretched out on the compartment floor beside each other to protect themselves as much as possible in case any of those eggs of death should happen to land near the train. Perhaps they looked funny huddling down on the compartment floor in their best Sunday-go-to-meeting uniforms. However, in England it is not a sign of being afraid or of cowardice to fling yourself flat when the bombers come over. It is a sign of good sense. Perhaps it is true that the bomb or bullet that gets you has your name on it, and you can't escape it no matter where you are. At the same time, though, only a fool or a madman deliberately dares a bomb to do him harm. And so Freddy and Dave hugged the floor while the raiders roared over and plastered the countryside with their loads of death and destruction. At least fifty times an earth-shaking roar, and a towering sheet of flame, made them think that was the last bomb they'd ever hear in this war, or in this world. Each time invisible hands seemed to reach down out of that roaring, flame-filled night sky and lift the train clear up off the tracks, and then let it drop back with a jarring crash. After each outburst, however, they continued to remain alive. And presently the throbbing drone died away in the distance, the roaring and barking of the guns ceased, and the searchlight beams winked out one by one. Night returned again to that section of England—night painted here and there with the glow of fires set by the bombs. "The big bums!" Dave growled, and got up off the floor. "As if you and I haven't got enough to worry about without them buzzing over to make things worse. Were you scared, Freddy?" "Stiff," the English youth promptly replied. "Me, too," Dave said with half a chuckle. "That's my knees you hear, still knocking together. And they say you get used to air raids. Oh boy!" "You probably do," Freddy said. "But I have no desire to prove it to myself. I hope the blighters didn't hit the track. It's a long walk from here to London. I say, what's that?" At that moment a burst of shots had shattered the comparative silence outside. Regardless of regulations, the boys threw up their compartment window and leaned out. They saw a figure stumbling through the shadows alongside the train. He was bent over double as though in pain, and his footsteps faltered. Just as he came abreast of their compartment some more shots rang out. The stumbling figure stumbled for the last time. He fell forward, flat on his face, and lay still. In a few seconds half a dozen men in uniform came rushing up. One of them flashed a light on the still figure, then bent down and rolled him over. "Well, that's one blighter they won't be able to count on from now on!" a voice growled. "A jolly good thing he's finished, too!" "Right!" a second voice said. "If we hadn't been a patrol, it might have turned out a mess for this train. Fancy the beggar trying to let them know where it was!" "I say there!" Freddy called, and leaned farther out the window. "What's all this?" "Keep back in that train, and—!" a voice started to say, but stopped as the flashlight beam caught Dave and Freddy for a second in its glow. "Oh, sorry, sir," the same voice spoke again. "Thought you were just nosy civilians, not R.A.F. Well, sir, we caught another one of them Fifth Column beggars trying to do us harm." "Yes, sir; that's right, sir," another voice broke in. "We were on our usual patrol along the track when suddenly we saw some bloke slinking along ahead of us. The raiders weren't even close, then, so we just followed this beggar and didn't challenge him. Well, strike me pink, sir, if he didn't drop down on the tracks, and whip one of them red flare things from his pocket and start to light it." "But he didn't get away with it, I can tell you, sir," the first voice spoke up. "Me and Harry, here, right ups and jumps on him before he's even got the match to it. But he's a strong one, and he gives us a bit of a fight, and—" "A bit of a fight?" the other voice interrupted again. "The blighter tosses us around like we're a couple of rag dolls, and starts scooting down the track. By then the bombers are right over us, and—Well, I guess you heard the things they dropped. Anyway, we lose this blighter for a bit during the mess-up. Then we spot him trying to get on the train. We don't bother to challenge, now. We just let him have what he deserves. And here he is. A good thing, too!" "A very good thing," Freddy added. "Congratulations. You're air raid wardens, aren't you?" "That's right, sir," one of them replied. "Too old for any regular military work, but we're jolly well glad to do what we can to help." Dave looked down at the still figure on the ground. But for the watchfulness and constant vigilance of those "old" men, that dead Nazi spy might have lighted the signal flare on the track and made it possible for the German bombers overhead to see the slow moving train. But for those "old" men a bomb might have come screaming down to strike the train and blow one Dave Dawson and one Freddy Farmer straight into the next world. Dave glanced up at the men, and his eyes glowed with frank and open admiration. "And without your help," he said, "England would be in a pretty tough spot. She can thank you fellows for a lot—and how!" The air raid wardens chuckled in an embarrassed sort of way. "Well, thank you, sir," one of them said. "It's mighty nice of you to put it that way. We're glad to do our bit, though. You sound like a Yank, sir." "Oh, don't mind that," Freddy spoke up with a laugh before Dave could say a word. "You'd be surprised how he mangled the language at first. But he's really doing awfully well—for a little fellow. The squadron commander's going to let him taste his first cup of tea next week. And—Ouch!" Dave had eased off the window catch so that it slid down on Freddy's neck. He held it there with his hands and grinned at the air raid wardens through the glass. They roared with laughter. Then as the train started to move, Dave released Freddy's neck and pushed the window up. "Good luck!" he shouted, and leaned out. "Thumbs up, mates!" "The same to you, sir!" they shouted back. "Thumbs up, R.A.F.!" The train picked up speed, and another little incident in the war careers of Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer became history. They closed the window, pulled the curtain down, and sank back on the seats. Freddy rubbed the back of his neck and glared at Dave's grinning face. "Go ahead and grin, you queer-looking ape," he muttered. "But I'll get back at you, no fear. And when I do, you'll jolly well know it, too." "Let that be a lesson to you to speak of your superiors in the future with more respect," Dave chuckled. "You're lucky, my little man, I didn't make you keep your head hanging out there all the way to London. But, gee, you English are certainly swell people!" "Naturally," Freddy said in mock gravity. "Look who we are, my dear fellow. And just think how fortunate you are to have the opportunity to observe and learn." "No kidding, though," Dave said, "Hitler just hasn't a chance. It gave me a great kick to meet those air raid wardens back there." "I know what you mean," Freddy said, and nodded. "It isn't just the Army, and the Navy, and the Air Force fighting Hitler, now. It's England—all of England from the oldest right down to the youngest." "What a dope Hitler was even to think he could get away with it!" Dave murmured. "Boy, oh boy! Is that guy riding for one big fall!" "And I jolly well hope it will be soon!" Freddy echoed. "And that reminds me. I certainly wish I knew what Air Vice- Marshal Saunders wants of us!" Dave groaned and slid down on the seat. "My pal!" he sighed unhappily. "Just when I was all nice and relaxed, you'd have to go and bring that up!" CHAPTER FOUR Nazi Wings Over London Dave gave the bell-hop a shilling and waited for the boy to step out into the hall and close the door. Then he took three running steps, jumped, and landed flat on his back on the bed. The springs squeaked in protest but didn't give way. Dave flung out his arms and sighed loudly. "Boy, a real bed!" he exclaimed. "Look, Freddy, this is a bed. Springs, mattress, sheets, blankets, and everything. And it's all mine until tomorrow. Of course those things we have out at the squadron aren't too tough. But this! This is a real bed. Turn out that light, pal. I'm practically asleep right now. Gosh! That train took a million years, didn't it?" Freddy didn't reply at once. He slung his suitcase onto the other bed, then came over and grabbed Dave by the feet. A good yank and Dave was on the floor. "You're not using that bed, yet," Freddy grinned down into his startled face. "There's plenty of time for your beauty sleep. First we're going out to have a look at the black-out." "Going out?" Dave groaned and got slowly to his feet. "Me go out and crack my shins against things in the dark? Nit, nat, no, my little man. Mrs. Dawson's pride and joy is going to bed. And I'm not kidding." Freddy grinned wickedly and dropped into a wrestler's crouch. "You think so?" he murmured. "Right you are! Just try and get into that bed." "So that's it, huh?" Dave grunted and took a cautious step forward. "I've got to tie and gag you first? Or maybe you didn't hear me. I'm going to bed. You take London and the black-out. Me, I'm taking the bed. I—" Dave cut the last off short and leaped forward, but Freddy was too quick for him. The English youth darted to the side, then turned in a flash and caught Dave's arms and pinned them behind his back. "Do you go quietly with me, my little American chap?" he said. "Or shall I phone down for the Savoy Hotel manager to come up here and give me a hand?" Dave struggled for a second or two, but was unable to break his friend's hold. "Darned if the youngster hasn't a little bit of strength, at that!" he said in mocking surprise. "I'd better not be so easy with him after this. Okay, you win. Stop breaking my arms." "We go for a walk?" Freddy asked, still keeping his hold. "Okay, we walk," Dave said, and groaned wearily. "But if you fall down a man-hole—and you know what I hope— don't go yelling at me for help." Freddy released his grip and stepped quickly backward. Dave rubbed his arms and scowled at him. "Yeah, you do know a couple of tricks, don't you," he grunted. "But look. Why can't we see London in the daytime, when it's light? I'm dead on my feet, no kidding. You'd—" Dave didn't finish. At that moment the familiar but always nerve-rasping wail of the air raid siren filled the night air outside. Freddy jumped across the room, and flipped off the light switch. Then the two went over to the window and pulled aside the black-out curtains. Far to the east the black sky was being stabbed by long pencils of white light that slowly swung back and forth from horizon to horizon. In a moment there came the dull pounding of distant anti-aircraft batteries. The sound grew louder and sharper as it drew near. Suddenly both boys jumped as a battery nearby went into savage, furious action. It was so close it seemed practically under their feet. "Holy smokes!" Dave gulped, and backed away from the window. "I swear I saw those shells going right up past the end of my nose. Get back from that window, Freddy. Concussion might blow in that glass and do plenty to your face. Let's—" Br-r-rump! The sound of an exploding bomb a few blocks away cut Dave's words off short. He looked at Freddy, and they both grinned sheepishly. "I guess you're right!" Dave exclaimed. "I'm not going to bed. Let's go borrow a couple of tin helmets from the manager, if he has any, and go up on the roof." "The roof?" Freddy echoed, and his eyes widened suddenly. "What in the world?" Wha-a-ang! Br-r-rump! Two bombs let go in rapid succession. They seemed to explode almost right outside the window. Dave and Freddy threw themselves flat on the floor between the twin beds, and held their breath. The hotel rocked and shook violently, and there was the tinkle of glass as the shattered window spilled into the room. They waited until the echo of the explosions had died away, and then got slowly to their feet. There was just a hole now where the window had been—a hole that looked out on a world gone suddenly mad with roaring sound and flashing red, orange and yellow flame. Freddy groped for Dave's hand and shook it warmly. "Thanks, very much," he said in a tight voice. "Thanks?" Dave murmured. "For what?" "For reminding me to keep away from windows during a bombing raid," Freddy said. "But just before that blighter scared ten years off my life, what were you saying? Oh, yes. You want to go up on the roof?" "Sure," Dave said with a nod. "For a look. We'll be as safe there as any place. If one's coming, it'll come. Just standing here waiting gives me the creeps, anyway." "Me, too," Freddy agreed. "Let's go, then. Bet the manager's in the raid shelter, though, and won't dig up tin helmets for us for love nor money." "Well, we can try," Dave said. "And—Drop, Freddy! Here comes another!" Dave's words of warning were just a waste of breath. The screaming whistle of that bomb hurtling downward cut through all sound. As Dave flung himself flat again, he had the crazy feeling of listening to some huge invisible giant tearing off the top of the world. Even the anti-aircraft battery close to the hotel was drowned out by the unearthly sound of that falling bomb. Then it struck, and the hotel seemed to rise right straight up in the air. Dave was sure he could feel the floor heave under him. He closed his eyes tight, and held his breath. For a long moment everything seemed to stop dead. Then the hotel settled back like something alive but so very, very tired. A second later there was a short series of sharp cracking sounds, and ceiling plaster fell down on the two R.A.F. pilots. "That baby was trying to mean business!" Dave said, and got to his feet again. "Hitler must know we're in town, the way so many of them are coming close. Hey, that did hit close. The building next door!" The hole where the window had been was now like the entrance to a long blazing tunnel. Thirty feet away the three upper floors of a building were blazing fiercely. And when the two boys leaped over to the window hole, they saw that the entire front of the building had been torn away by the terrific blast. In the glow of the flames they could see right into rooms full of broken and mangled furniture and apartment furnishings. On the rear wall of one room was a framed picture of King George and Queen Elizabeth. Everything else in the room was wrecked beyond possible recognition by its owners, but the picture of the King and Queen was untouched. It hung on the blast-scorched wall as straight as could be. Something about that picture hanging there touched a note deep in Dave Dawson. He stared at it for a moment in almost reverent awe. Then, clicking his heels, he brought his hand up in smart salute. "There'll always be an England," he murmured softly. Freddy Farmer caught the direction of his gaze, looked himself and saluted in turn. "Always!" he said with deep tenderness in his voice. At that moment a shrill cry of pain came to them from out of the burning building. There was a second cry, and a third. They could see nothing but the fierce glow of the flames, but the cries seemed to come from the rear of the fourth floor. "There are wounded people in that building!" Freddy cried. "Trapped, and probably can't get out!" Dave added. "And it's a cinch their cries can't be heard by the fire wardens down there in the street. What say, Freddy?" "Of course!" the English youth shouted, and went bounding for the door. The elevators had stopped running, so they went down the stairs three and four at a time. They dashed through the vacant lobby, out the front door, and along the short court that led out onto the Strand. There they turned left and headed for a fire lieutenant directing his men at work trying to put out the fire in the bomb-hit building. Dave grabbed him by the arm, and pointed up. "There are some people trapped on the fourth floor, sir!" he shouted. "We heard their screams from our hotel room. Fourth floor, rear." The fire lieutenant looked at them, saw their unifo...